


but then his hands roamed

by defcontwo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6939343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack’s hand pressed into the small of Parse’s back during team meetings, where no one else can see, and Parse toppling into Jack’s lap whenever he gets drunk enough that no one will blink twice at it. </p><p>A game of chicken, or a game of chance. Jack doesn’t know which one it’s going to be just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but then his hands roamed

**Author's Note:**

> warning for a (very!) brief mention of homophobia. 
> 
> thank you so so much to sparklyslug for the stunning beta work, as per usual. <333

“Parse, what are you doing out here without a coat on?” 

It’s a cold night, not made any better by the wind chill blowing in from the river. Jack’s used to cold winters, but there’s something different about a night in Rimouski that makes you freeze all the way down to your bones. 

But that’s not stopping Parse from sitting hunkered down on the porch steps of tonight’s house party, an almost-burnt out cigarette butt pinched between his thumb and his index finger, and a can of Molson’s balanced on his knee. 

Parse shrugs. “Gave my coat to some chick who lost hers. Don’t need it, I’ve got my beer jacket on,” he says, slapping one hand up to his arm, as if patting at an invisible coat. 

Jack swallows hard, ignores the clicking in the back of his throat. Parse makes him nervous, these days. 

He doesn’t know what it is; it’s not the nervous from early last season, when Jack showed up early to his first day playing for the Rimouski Océanic only to find that there was already this tiny blonde kid out on the ice, skating suicides faster than Jack’s ever been able to manage. 

No, that was a different kind of a nervous, a nervous that hasn’t faded entirely, not exactly, but it’s easier to shuffle it to the background, now that Jack knows just how _good_ he and Parse work together out on the ice. 

This is something else. Something that causes a lurch in his stomach every time he catches himself staring for too long, and with too much affection, at the way Parse's lips curl into a pout when he’s bored during drills. Or the way Parse stares right back, whenever he catches Jack at it. It’s a game, almost; how long can they stare, and how close can they stand, before one of them finally has to make a move. Jack’s hand pressed into the small of Parse’s back during team meetings, where no one else can see, and Parse toppling into Jack’s lap whenever he gets drunk enough that no one will blink twice at it. 

A game of chicken, or a game of chance. Jack doesn’t know which one it’s going to be just yet. 

Part of Jack wants to turn tail and run far away from whatever this is, but at the same time, that part of him gets overruled by the thrumming in Jack’s heart, and the way every inch of his side goes warm where they're pressed flush together when he plops down next to Parse on the porch steps, and steals the cigarette out of Parse’s hands. 

Jack inhales, and then exhales, smoke mingling with the mist that’s hanging thick in the air. “You get sick of practicing your québécois?” 

Kent shakes his beer, but it doesn’t make any sounds like there’s anything left inside, so he sets it down. “Maybe. It’s not like all you fuckers don’t speak English, you could switch over for me every once in awhile.” 

Jack shrugs, putting out the rest of the cigarette under the heel of his boot. “It’s good practice for you.” 

“Fuck off, Zimms,” Parse says. In the dim light of the flickering porch bulb, Parse is made of nothing but sharp edges; there’s an aching, tired sullenness written into every inch of his features, eyes rimmed in just enough red that Jack can’t miss it, and yet somehow, when Jack presses their knees together, he's all yield. 

"Frank's a huge dick," Parse says, cutting harshly into the silence. "You know, I'm gonna beat the shit out of him one of these days." 

It's a ridiculous mental image. Parse, at 5'9" with no more than an inch or two left to grow, still has days where he sits around and eats nothing but plates of bell peppers to try and put on more muscle mass. 

And Frank -- Frank's a bruiser with a bad temper and easily a hundred pounds on Kent Parson. He likes to arm wrestle beer money out of people at parties, and tell stories to make the guys laugh so hard they forget Frank's just conned them out of their allowances.

Jack's not blind. He sees the way some of the other guys grimace when Frank gets a little too out of hand, starts getting nasty, starts calling people the kinds of names that make the breath catch in Jack's throat, wondering if they can all see it on his face. If today's the day when Jack finally gets caught for something that he's only beginning to understand for himself. 

But Jack knows what he’s sure Parse has already guessed for himself: the other guys can grimace all they want, they’re still never going to say anything about it. 

Jack drops his hand to his side, and angles his body away from the door. From inside, it will just look like they’re talking -- just Parse and Zimms shooting the shit, always going off on their own, probably working on plays, or talking out next week’s opponents. 

No one will see the way Jack’s started tracing patterns into the hole at the knee in Parse’s jeans, or the way Parse shivers at that small, focused point of contact, and leans into it. 

The tight coil in Jack’s chest unwinds, just that small amount; he wasn’t wrong about this. 

“Hey, you know,” Jack says, “I overheard the coaches talking the other day. Coach Phillips thinks Frank’ll be lucky to make it out of the ECHL once in his entire career.” 

Parse snorts. “We can only hope.” 

Jack lifts his hand from where it had been resting on Parse’s knee because he’s pretty sure they can only stay so lucky for so long, and Parse lets out a low huff, almost like a groan, that Jack wants to hear again and again and again. 

“Hey, Zimms,” Parse says, and he’s smiling, now, smiling the way he does right before a game that he’s sure they’re going to win. It’s the smile that says, go on. I fucking dare you to try me. 

Jack can’t help himself. He’s always been a sucker for a good dare. 

“Be a gentleman and walk a poor, freezing motherfucker home,” Parse says, and he must be freezing, in that thin, long-sleeved black cotton t-shirt, even with that stupid red knit hat of his, the one with the snowflakes that look like pot leaves on it that he bought by accident, and now can never get rid of on principle. 

God. Jack doesn’t know how this happened. Doesn’t know how he ever managed to go sixteen years of his life without Kent Parson and his cheshire cat grin. 

“Not my fault you gave away your jacket,” Jack says, but he’s already standing up, already letting Parse lead him away without taking the time to say goodbye, and that’s its own relief, because Parse knows how much Jack hates having to do it. 

Jack doesn’t like the way people look at him, like they expect him to be better at this, better at being around people when all he wants is to be left the fuck alone. 

It’s easier when it’s just the two of them, swallowed whole by the dark of the night, and Jack can tell himself that they’re the only people still awake in all of Rimouski. 

“You know,” Parse says, after they’ve made it about half a mile wandering through rows of houses, and ducking around snow drifts. “A real gentleman would’ve offered me his jacket by now.” 

“I’m already walking you home, aren’t I?” Jack cracks. “Besides, then I’d be cold.” 

“Asshole,” Parse scoffs, “see if I don’t push you into a snow drift.” 

Jack thinks of that low, small groan that Parse let out earlier. Would Parse make fun of him, if Jack placed his arm around Parse’s shoulders, the way men always do in the movies? Or would he lean into it, and curve into the space between them? 

Jack wants to find out. 

“Hey,” Jack says, pausing in the middle of the street. Jack looks to his left and to his right, but it’s going on 2 AM, and this area is too residential for much of anyone to be out. Jack reaches out, fingers grazing the back of Parse’s neck as Jack settles his arm around Parse’s shoulders, and says, “I can’t have my liney freezing to death on me, eh?” 

“I guess this is alright,” Parse grumbles, but he shuffles closer, presses his face into Jack’s chest, and Jack didn’t know this was possible, to be so warm but still so completely fucking _terrified_ by the enormity of what he feels. 

“Are we going to stand here all night?” Jack chirps, and Parse flicks him on the nose. 

“You’re the one that stopped us in the middle of the street to have some sort of Nicholas Sparks moment,” Parse says, as they set off again. 

“Nicholas who?” 

Parse laughs. “Never mind, Zimms. Just keep walking. Ask your mom some time, I’ll bet she knows.” 

It’s another ten minutes like that, hip to hip, like they’re trying to do some sort of elaborate two-man shuffle, or maybe stumble to the finish line in a summer carnival race, but there’s nothing absurd about it to Jack. Nothing absurd about how aware he’s become of Parse’s breathing, or the way Parse has wrapped his arm around Jack’s middle, fingertips tapping out a beat against Jack’s ribs. 

Jack doesn’t know if he wants it to last forever, or end as soon as possible, so he can figure out what to do with it. 

“Zimms,” Parse says, nudging him in the side. “We’re here.” 

“Huh,” Jack says. They’re standing under the back light at Parse’s billet; Parse is one of the lucky ones, or so the rest of their team says. His billet parents aren’t around all that much, and they let him have an entire basement to himself, shitty fold-out couch and all. 

He steps away from Parse, and lets his arm drop to his side. It aches, a little, from the way he’d been holding it, but that doesn’t stop Jack from wishing they could rewind the whole walk home, and do it all over again. 

“Yeah, uh,” Parse says, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. “Thanks, for uh. You know.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “You know, uh. Can’t play hockey with frostbite.” 

“Right,” Parse says, ducking his head, and there’s that familiar curl to his lips, like he knows how completely full of shit Jack is. 

_I fucking dare you to try me,_ Jack thinks, and then steps forward, wrapping one hand around the nape of Parse’s neck, watching the way Parse’s eyes widen, like he didn’t really expect Jack to do it, and then Parse is meeting him in the middle, and Jack -- Jack has no fucking idea what he’s doing here. 

It’s awkward, at first -- an ungainly bumping between lips and teeth, and then Parse’s teeth catch onto Jack’s bottom lip and he _tugs_ , and God, Jack didn’t know, he didn’t know that they should’ve been doing this weeks ago, months ago, didn’t know that he should’ve started kissing Kent Parson from the very second he met him, at that first practice a year and a half ago. 

“Zimms,” Parse says, and fuck, there’s that low groan again. “ _Zimms_.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, voice oddly hushed to his own ears, and then kisses Parse again. Wonders if that shitty fold-out couch fits two and a thrill runs straight through him when he realizes that he might just get to find out. 

Jack presses Parse into the back door of his billet, and kisses him once, twice, so many times until he can’t ignore the way his eyes have started to droop, because they both should’ve been in bed hours ago. 

“Hey, Zimms,” Parse says, leaning up to bump his forehead into Jack’s nose, like the asshole that he is. “I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” 

“Tomorrow, yeah,” Jack repeats, and then chases it with another kiss, “buy yourself a new fucking jacket, alright?” 

“Can’t play hockey with frostbite, uhuh,” Parse parrots back. “Got it. Now get the fuck out of here before you get me in trouble.” 

Parse shuts the door behind him with a soft click, and Jack should get started on his walk home, now, can't risk lingering where he shouldn’t be at all, doing something that he never should’ve let himself do in the first place. Jack rubs at an invisible ache in his chest, and sighs.

Jack turns around, looks out at the dimly lit street, the snow-covered trees and the misshapen lumps in the dark that can only be more snow drifts. Jack shivers, suddenly cold without the absence of another person pressed up into him, and thinks _tomorrow_.


End file.
